


a flower blooms in frigid snow

by ferbiedragon



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: cree finds her friend, cree misses her friend, enjoy, finally gave up, i spent days pretending i didn't want to write this, listen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferbiedragon/pseuds/ferbiedragon
Summary: cree knows where she has to go.
Relationships: Cree & Mollymauk Tealeaf
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	a flower blooms in frigid snow

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i just. i don't have any control over myself, okay? and i had to write this. it might not make ANY sense at all, but it's like... might as well?? anyway i'm curious to see how this plays out in-game but i like to think cree is happy to have lucien back. 
> 
> might continue with a chapter two. we'll see.

It’s raining when Cree finds him.

_Sleeting_ is more like it. It starts the moment she sets foot in Hupperdook, and does not stop. She imagines it will change to snow, soon; the air is frigid and wet, and the tabaxi pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and hopes that her fur will thicken up with each day spent in this cold place.

The path to Shady Creek Run is familiar, and she walks it with a certainty she has not felt in some time. She would not have left the service of The Gentleman if she were not so assured that the path she is on is the right one-- he has been good to her, after all, although it was in exchange for her skills and her work. Still, and to his credit, he had not tried to stop her from leaving.

Not that he could have. He cannot stop her. Nothing in this _world_ will stop her from finding Lucien.

She trudges along and tells herself that it should not have taken her so long to come, that she should have left when she first dreamt of him, alone and cold and afraid. Yet she had waited, expecting… she is uncertain. Perhaps that those who claimed to be his friend-- those that knew him as _Mollymauk_ , who seemed so fond of the person he was…

But she should not be surprised they did not heed her. They _lied_ to her, after all. Told her he had left them. It is their fault he died, after all, their carelessness which ended his new life, and perhaps she should not be so judgmental that they buried him, that they left him. After all, had she not done the same, once?

It is _different_ , though, she tells herself. Different, because they _knew_ he had died, once. Knew he had returned as someone else. Surely they thought it may happen again? And then, even with her to warn them, even with her _telling them_ that she had dreamed of him....

They gave up so easily on him. Better things to do, more important than someone they claimed to be their friend…

Cree is angry. Cree is not certain she will ever not be angry, and perhaps she shouldn’t be. She gave up, as well. Accepted the answer of the half-orc Fjord, told him she would move on, except the dreams, the _visions_ had never stopped, and now she is here, and--

Well. It doesn’t matter now, though. She will handle it herself.

She cannot say how long it has taken for her to reach this familiar path. At least a week, she estimates, and it has not been easy going. This far out, trouble lurks around every corner, and more than once she’s met someone in her way who has sought to free her of her coin, or her belongings, or just her life.

She hasn’t let them. Cree can take care of herself, and bandits don’t frighten her. She’s seen terrifying things in her life, in her time as a Tomb Taker. A shivering human vagabond with a half-bent crossbow is hardly intimidating. 

Hupperdook is not quite the lively place she remembers it to be. It’s still wounded from the Kryn attack, still burned at the edges like parchment held over flame. Cree stays for only a single night, long enough to rest and replenish her supplies. She makes little small talk with the shopkeeper of the General Store, and watches only with mild interest as a group of children play along the side street, four gnomes and a kenku, a strange group, to be sure. 

It pleases her somewhat to see them, regardless of her focus. Hupperdook has suffered much through the war-- now that it is over, perhaps things will be better for the people here.

_New life_ , she thinks, and it sparks something in her chest. _A flower blooming in the snow._

She leaves the next morning.

By the time the gravesite appears in the distance, the ground beneath her feet is mostly mud, and her body feels chilled through to the bone.

A simple wooden staff protrudes from the ground, listing hard to one side under the weight of a sodden, colorful coat. The one Lucien was wearing, when last she saw him. Her eyes narrow slightly. An adequate enough marker for a quickly dug grave, but hardly enough to last for as long as they likely expected he would remain. Still, the sight of it is enough to push her forwards. 

It’s also enough to trigger a small voice in the back of her mind, a wheedling, sinister tone that says, _there is no guarantee he is still here, if he lives. He might have left._ And then another, more chilling thought, _there is no guarantee that he is alive at all._

Cree tries not to dwell on it, but the thought is there now, and she cannot ignore it. What if there is nothing left of Lucien but a horned skeleton? What if the worms have eaten his flesh and left only bone behind? 

Then she steps closer to the grave, the marker and the sodden coat, and a sudden, sharp tug against her heart makes her fur stand on end beneath her heavy winter robes. She breathes out a puff of frost, tail lashing, eyes widening as she senses it. Like a tether, a binding, she feels him calling to her. Lucien. Her _friend._

“I hear you,” she says, and drops to her knees beside the grave. The dirt gives way easily beneath her fingers, softened by the sleet. Small pebbles snag against her claws as she digs, and the frigid earth (loosened as it is) still tears at the delicate pads on her fingers and palms. The staff dislodges and falls to the ground, and the coat goes as well, landing in the mud with the sound of wet cloth, and the sleeve slaps against her cheek as it falls. Still, she continues, heedless of the pain, single-minded in her efforts. 

He is here. He is _here_ , calling her, calling for help, and she will not leave him.

“I hear you,” Cree tells the dirt as she digs, and she realizes she is crying.

A flash of purple, pale with the cold, and then _movement_ , and suddenly there is a hand pushing out from beneath, smudged and filthy, nails broken and cracked. A tattoo of an eye in a peacock feather marks the back of it. Cree makes a noise like a sob and grabs hold of it. “I am here,” she tells him, and redoubles her efforts, until the hand is followed by an arm, and then a shoulder and neck, all marked with tattoos, and then a head and a face and eyes, eyes that shine like rubies in the darkness.

“Lucien,” she breathes, and then _pulls_ , and he lurches up from the dirt like she’s pulling turnips instead of a tiefling. He slumps against her, so she hooks her arm under his shoulder and heaves him up, until only his legs remain in his grave. Then she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight in a hug. 

The sleet is freezing and the pair of them are getting soaked through, but Cree doesn’t care. Lucien is _here_. He is _alive_ , his heart beating, his chest moving… and it feels as if it’s been ages since she saw him, because the last time-- _the last time_ \-- he had been _Mollymauk_ , someone different, her friend’s body but a person changed, and he hadn’t stayed…

One of her ears twitches, and she realizes that he’s saying something, mumbling quiet words against her neck. Brow furrowed, Cree pulls back to listen. 

“Empty,” Lucien whispers. His eyes are wide, and stare at her without recognition. “Empty,” he repeats.

“Oh,” Cree lets out a soft breath. “Oh, Lucien-- no, you are not _empty_.” She draws him in again, pets the back of his head. “I have you. I am here, and I have you.” 

He makes a terrible, sad sound and falls silent. Cree runs her fingers through his hair and shushes him gently, cradling him like a babe. “I have you, my friend,” she murmurs. She pins her ears against her head. “I will not leave you again.”

And she means it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Flower Blooms In Frigid Snow: Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578792) by [rosy_cheekx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx)




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